


here's a thought

by dhils



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, and folks he ain't wrong, connor's convinced freddie is nothing less than a five course meal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 13:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17366624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhils/pseuds/dhils
Summary: The next time Connor takes a peek at his wrist is in the passenger seat of Zach’s car, trying to read the words through dull flashes of headlights, but it’s enough. The thoughts come slower this time, in looping lettering. Connor doesn’t get how anybody can think in cursive.





	here's a thought

**Author's Note:**

> how is connor brown a real person even
> 
> also! this is one of those “ur soulmate’s thoughts show up on ur wrist” au’s. just in case the summary didn’t make any sense:)

Connor’s soul mark comes in a flash of colourful language and rapid words. 

Incomplete sentences appear and disappear across his wrist, it’s all in neat scrawl, but it’s tiny. His heart jumps into his throat at the realization that words had already been flying on and off his wrist minutes before he’d looked down, not quite catching the full story.

Because all Connor gets is: _fuck, fuck, what the fuck, why did—what?_ and the words keep coming, almost too fast for him to keep track of. He has to strain his eyes just to read the lettering, and the pace at which it’s all hopping on and off his wrist isn’t at all helpful.

He doesn’t know what this means and he can feel his own heart thumping rapidly against his chest even without being completely aware of the situation, too caught up in trying to stifle the negatives instead of actually trying to put context to this. Whatever it is. 

It keeps going, and Connor knowsit does because he’s been very carefully keeping live tabs on the train of thought practically attacking his wrist, barreling on with panicked sentences broken up just enough that Connor is still lost. He gets a, _Canada, fucking cold ass winters. Snow. Ice._ and then, _I’d rather burn to death in Arizona._ It’s the most direction he gets in trying to understand this, and Connor still doesn’t know what it means.

The fact that it’s June is the biggest confusion for him, because summer doesn’t usually bring ice. He even checks, peeking outside his bedroom window to a blue sky and the sun shining. Nothing that shows up up on his wrist makes any sense. Complaints about the cold almost completely overpower the distasteful language from earlier, and Connor watches the ink on his wrist flick through a series of incomprehensible thoughts before completely losing hope on it.

He gives it time, it’s not like he’s the most impatient person in the world, but after a while of trying to keep up with the sentences packed into his wrist, he gives up. They come and go too fast for him to make much out of anything, so he pulls on a wristband and looks in the other direction.

 

 

The excitement of actually having a soulmate is a realization that hits him later that night, when he’s lying in bed and the loudest sound in the room is the ticking of the clock he’s got hung up on the wall. 

Connor knows well enough that everyone has a soulmate, he’s not an idiot, but this is _his_ soulmate, this is the person he’s destined to spend the rest of his life with, and that’s something that sinks into him only when he’s alone. It’s expected that everyone has a soulmate, but somewhere in the pit of his stomach he had that frightening burst of _what if I don’t_ , that incessant voice in the back of his head that wouldn’t let him forget his mark still hadn’t came in. 

But he can admit that it’s a little more different than what he’d imagined. Connor hadn’t ever gotten the chance to read anyone else’s wrists so he wasn’t sure of just how the marks came in, how small they were, or how quickly they vanished. It hasn’t been socially acceptable to actually lean in and examine the wrists of others ever. He was raised on the idea of keeping away from a person’s right arm. 

It never made sense to him, because they’re just words, but the needed privacy of the matter hits him now, now that he’s considering his own thoughts and realizes that someone could be reading them right now. 

He wouldn’t want any of this to go to anyone’s eyes but his soulmate’s, whether or not they’re examining their wrist or still preoccupied with their fucking _show_ of a panic attack. Connor sighs, shuts his eyes, and tries to keep his mind blank.

He doesn’t dream that night.

 

 

There are mornings where Connor will wake up to a silent phone screen wiped clean of notifications and texts, and those are the kinds of mornings he can get out of bed stress free. Without the weight of having to interact with anyone first thing after waking up, which is a _chore_ , thanks.

Today is not one of those mornings, because instead of a blank screen when he turns on his phone, he’s faced with a variety of texts from a few too many people. Enough that Connor groans and contemplates whether or not his phone would fit in the garbage disposal, and then wipes that thought when he remembers he’s got that wrist situation going on.

One quick glance to the skin on his forearm dampens his mood immediately. It’s void of much more than the veins peeking through from underneath the skin and Connor really is stuck with having to deal with whatever’s on his phone. If his soulmate’s still asleep, he might as well fall back on the idea of actually being up, but one of the texts brightly lit against his screen catches his eye.

 _new goalie in town💪🏒_ , Mitch texts, and Connor blinks at his phone for a second or two. 

_don’t tell me ur gonna play in net_ , Connor writes and hits send before he even considers a trade. That thought hits him like a truck. They’re desperate enough that even a pebble in net would be worth half the salary cap. If anything, this is a godsend.

 _u WISH i would play in net_ , Mitch says, _don’t u keep up with thescore??some andersen guy is our tendy now_

_wait really?? how?? when?? who did this???_ Connor texts, and quickly adds: _also no? i don’t read articles about myself like a cocky loser_

He clicks out of their texts and immediately goes to google, typing out _andersen_ and _leafs_ into the search bar, which pulls up a few different articles going over trade details, and the steps the Leafs need to take, and—Connor revises his search and googles _frederik andersen_ this time.

A lot more about the guy himself pops up with tht. Connor doesn’t mean to click onto the images tab, but it was more than tempting. For research. And—there goes his dignity. 

Andersen’s hot, and stacked, and so fucking built. Just what they need in net, a face worthy of making it into a beauty magazine. Or on the cover.

A notification slides in on the top of his screen, where Mitch texts back a few of the trade details, and Connor glosses over all of them just to send back _have u seen his face!!!!_

 _oh my god_ , Mitch texts, _brownie no._

 _i didn’t know u could trade away picks for supermodels_ , Connor texts back, and he’s really just gushing about this guy’s hotness meter being off the charts. He’s not gonna, like, offer to suck his dick at training camp. But.

Mitch sends: _ur gonna scare away our only chance at surviving this hell league_ and immediately follows that up with _carrot head_

Connor’s about to protest, but he sees a _fuck, my head_ flash across his wrist and immediately trashes whatever argument of freedom of speech he was building up to text back a middle finger emoji and leaves that there. 

He gets on the treadmill some time later, just to erase everything lingering in his head. Breakfast plans swim across his wrist.

 

 

“Guess what I have,” Connor says, and he all but runs up to Zach in the locker room. Zach looks up with curiosity behind his eyes, and his gaze dips down immediately.

“Oh, your sleeve,” he says, pointing at the dark nylon material wrapped securely around his right forearm. “Actually got something under there or are you just going through a denial phase?” 

Zach’s got his own sleeve around his wrist, has worn it since his draft apparently. Connor isn’t even sure if Zach knows who it is or not, because he barely ever says anything about his mark or his soulmate, so that’s something. But Zach’s had his mark longer than anyone else he knows, so he’s just gotta trust it. 

“You better believe it,” Connor says, and he just knows he’s got words running across his forearm right now, maybe quick and anxious thoughts, maybe slower more calm streams, but whatever it is he wishes he could look. There are just a lot of prying eyes in a locker room, too many to take your sleeve off for much longer than a minute or so. 

“Huh, looks like you aren’t destined to die alone,” Zach says, and his lips curl up into a little smile. “Who would’ve thought.”

“I deserve love way more than you do,” Connor says, and Zach rolls his eyes. He gives his arm a little squeeze and turns back to his stall, pulling his skates out, but Connor is still getting over the ecstasy of the whole thing.

There are words on his forearm pointing him in the direction of the person he was linked up with by fucking fate, and that’s the craziest shit in the world to him. It’s all he thinks about all the way back to his stall, and it might even show up on his face because Mitch knocks his elbow into his ribs. 

“Are you good?” He asks.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Connor tells him. “It’s specifically adults only business.”

Mitch rolls his eyes at him. “I already know you’ve got it bad for _our goalie_ , what else is there?” And he drops his voice enough when he’s discussing the subject matter that Connor doesn’t have to be worried about it, but seriously, not cool. 

He shoved a hand over Mitch’s mouth and tries giving him a glare with enough irritated vibes that he’ll back off of that. Especially because Andersen’s in the room with them, over by his stall and blending surprisingly well into the blue and white. He looks comfortably at home and that warms Connor’s heart up. Knowing that their goalie’s happy.

Mitch licks his hand.

“Ew,” Connor yelps, ripping his hand back. “You’re the worst.”

“And you’ve got it hot for F—“

“French fries,” Connor fills in, extending the ‘f’. It’s not a great coverup, he can’t even lie to himself. But, “You can take them salted or plain, they’ll taste good no matter what, and that’s the charm of them, y’know. McDonald’s probably puts chicken dick in their’s, but at least they’re good.” 

Mitch gives him a smug look. “Really smooth.” 

 

 

The next time Connor takes a peek at his wrist is in the passenger seat of Zach’s car and he’s trying to read the words through dull flashes of headlights that illuminate the dark ink, but it’s enough. The thoughts come slower this time, in looping lettering. Connor doesn’t get how anybody can think in cursive, but his soulmate’s a star, clearly. 

_I swear if he orders us sushi I’m gonna get up and leave. I don’t even care anymore._ Connor blinks at his wrist, and he snickers when the next sentence comes in, _Okay, bye._

“What’s up?” Zach asks, while Connor’s still chucking, and he pulls the sleeve back up over his forearm.

“Soulmate stuff,” he sings back gleefully, and Zach passes him a side eye. It’s not at all vicious, more like silently friendly, especially when coupled with the little smile that tugs on his lips. Because as much as Zach doesn’t want to admit it, he’s a good person. Connor knows his secrets.

“Am I being replaced by your soulmate right now? I’m hurt,” he says, not looking the slightest bit hurt.

“Sorry, this was waiting to happen,” Connor says, and he gives him a heavy sigh to really play it off. “Not my fault you’re boring.” 

Zach makes a noise of protest and Connor knows it’s something he’s supposed to respond to with a chirp or some faux supportive quip, but all he can ponder is _who_ his soulmate is having dinner with. It could be just about anyone, and Connor has no reason for the little flare of envy that licks at the corner of his thoughts, but it’s hard to push away. 

He looks back down at his wrist, after he’s sure Zach’s got his eyes fully trained to the road, and squints at the writing showing up on his wrist. _I’d be so genuinely disappointed if Toronto just—spontaneously burned to the ground_ , it says, followed by, _So sad._

And Connor’s not a complete idiot, he can distinguish between sarcasm even when it’s written on his wrist. He’s got an entire puzzle laid out for him, pieces coming to him on fragments of thoughts and he’s supposed to figure this out but there are literally millions of people in Toronto. That’s the one reason he wasn’t looking forward to this, the whole playing detective thing. 

All he’s got so far is someone who hates Canada, Toronto, and sushi, and— _why_ was he matched up with this person.

 

 

Connor starts warming back up to his soulmate on a chilly morning after a run, when he’s all but passed out on the steps outside his condo and sees lyrics rhythmically dancing on and off his skin. Connor thinks he might be stretching to consider it a song, but he realizes a minute later that he’s looking at the lyrics of _American Boy_ , which is—something else. It’s a catchy song, yeah, but seeing the chorus bounce on and off his wrist in fragments is just endearing enough that Connor doesn’t feel bad about waving all his other concerns off.

Hey, good taste in music can bring a person long way. Plus, Connor’s always worn his heart on his sleeve with a proud smile. There isn’t a chance that he’s not going to disguise this as an excuse to stop being dissatisfied with his soulmate’s other life choices.

Like, the other day they were supposedly repainting a house—possibly their own—and his soulmate ended up knocking a paint can right over. Half of Connor wishes he was there, just so he could help, because they sounded pretty peeved. But the other half knows he wouldn’t be able to contain his laughter.

All things said and done, Connor still wants to meet his soulmate and get to know them. Like, they might not have personalities that click (at least not through thoughts), but fuck him if he’s not a hopeless romantic who still believes wholeheartedly in soulmates. He feels like a kid, taking notes of hints he gets through broken strings of thought, trying to piece together a puzzle of just who this might be.

So far, he doesn’t have much.

But that isn’t where this ends.

 

 

When they’ve got a spare day between games, Mitch practically skips up to him, all but gushing about how a few of the guys are going to Freddie’s place to hang. And, to Connor, team bonding always sounds promising. Especially because the guys who end up going are really only just Mitch, Auston, himself, and Freddie, which is like. A small group he’s mostly familiar with.

He could be _more_ familiar with it, but, “Sorry, catching up on sleep, man. Being well rested is important,” Zach had said, as if he’s really that boring and he’s not just gonna go home and play video games. 

So yeah, even with Zach flaking out, hanging out at Freddie’s is easy. 

They’re sprawled out on the couches in the living room, and Auston’s intensely playing a round of chel with Freddie while Mitch chatters on about weekend plans. He’s leaning half his weight on Connor and Connor doesn’t have much of a choice rather than to let him, practically absorbing Mitch’s excitement. 

Connor’s wrist fucking _itches_ and he’s trying not to look uncomfortable because he doesn’t even know what that means, but it escalates to the point where he can practically feel the words running across his skin. They’re quick and uneven, feeling like broken sentences just as the first time Connor experienced this had felt. Only this time it’s a little more unbearable, and all Connor can really do is weakly excuse himself to the bathroom to figure out what to do with this.

He slips out from under Mitch, who makes a noise in protest, and pads down the hall. He’s just a little lost, even if he remembers Freddie explaining where the bathroom was. Second door to his right. Or his left.

Turns out it’s his right, because his left opened to a guest room and Connor’s entirely sure that’s not what he’s looking for. 

He’s not too concerned about how long he has before Mitch comes after him, but it’s a lot easier to forget about the others when he can peel his sleeve off and position his wrist under cool running water.

The liquid kisses his skin like ice, and it stops burning just like that. Like when Connor pulls back, all the symptoms from earlier are gone, left with just the quick words flying over his wrist like there are lives at stake. Connor manages to catch _what kind of cheap shot_ and _this fucker_ but that’s just about it. Even after Connor pats his wrist dry, blotches of red imprinting pale skin alter the tone of his wrist.

Which might be good for the most part. He’s finally getting shoved face first into this soulmate thing, faced with reminders that he can’t just throw it out. Not by covering it up with a sleeve, or something he can just drop. Not with that tiny tingling that had started up beneath his skin. 

Connor takes a peek in the mirror just because he’s got a fairly good view of himself, decked out in soft sweats like he’s about to nap and the irritated look of his wrist stark against the rest of his reflection. He huffs, shoving his sleeve back on and tries to remember to ask his soulmate why they thought it’d be helpful to ever switch to a completely foreign language while Connor’s trying to decipher the words

Context clues haven’t been on his side, and the accents that appear overtop words with far too many consonants isn’t really helping. If it isn’t English, Connor’s really not going to be great at reading it. He gives up.

Just. When he’s heading out of the bathroom, he catches a small mark of grey paint peeking out from underneath the fluffy rug placed on the ground by the countertop, and it doesn’t really catch his attention much until he pushes at the rug just a tad with his foot.

There’s a fading stain of paint underneath, matching the walls, and Connor blinks because—Freddie doesn’t seem like the type of person to be completely useless when it comes to painting. Not the same guy who keeps his home in pristine shape, and apparently a stress cleaner according to Auston. 

A lot of shit goes through Connor’s head at once, like how it’s hilarious he’s covering up the tint of insanely noticeable paint with a rug, or how Connor should probably remember to push the rug back before he leaves, or how his soulmate spilled a can of paint not long ago. 

_His soulmate_ who brewed up a storm on his wrist split between English and something else. But—Freddie’s calm, he wouldn’t. Connor doesn’t even go down _that_ route, he isn’t going to assume the Leafs’ star goaltender is his soulmate because that probably isn’t good for his head. Leading himself on like that, because lots of people spill cans of paint.

It’s just that Freddie wouldn’t. He’s too careful. Too precise. 

Connor pushes the rug back over the stain and leaves the bathroom with his wrist ignored, taking his spot back beside Mitch in the living room just as the third period on screen comes to a close. 

He’s trying not to look, but Freddie’s brow is drawn inward, a small crease appearing right between both his brows. Auston isn’t cheering too obnoxiously, but he lets out an excited, “that’s game, baby!” Which has Connor pretty much sold on the idea that Auston won that one. He always does. 

“Can’t say you didn’t get lucky,” Freddie tells him, and Connor isn’t sure if Freddie means to catch _his_ eye while he’s talking to Auston, but he can’t help but look away. It’s a lot to handle, even just a second of Freddie’s attention. Especially while he’s got stray thoughts of paint cans swirling around in his head, as if that’s something he’d ever thought would be concerning. 

“Luck is the goals _you_ scored,” Auston says, and Connor catches a glimpse of Mitch rolling his eyes . “What I did was skill.”

“Hit ‘em with the humility,” Connor chimes in, and it gets Freddie to crack a smile. 

Auston looks just about affronted. “My own teammates are ganging up on me.”

“Knees breathing heavy,” Mitch says, quoting something that probably shouldn’t ever be brought up. For the sake of his life and the last bit of dignity they’ve got between them, and that’s about all Connor can take because the look on Auston’s face is priceless.

“Unbelievable.” He shoots them an unimpressed look, even if it’s laced with clear fondness. Auston isn’t great at looking mad. Maybe apathetic, but not always mad. “I thought we had something.”

They keep shooting the shit for long enough after the game that the screen dims just enough that it catches Connor’s attention and he suggests watching something on Netflix if all they’re going to do is fuck around. 

It’s a good idea because he gets to clear his head and nobody’s suspicious about his silence, but then again. He’s only a few feet away from Freddie, Freddie who speaks more than just English, who’s got a paint stain on his bathroom floor, who lives in Toronto, and listens to R&B. Just like his soulmate.

And Connor just—knows he’s reaching. If anything, this is the farthest he’s ever gone when it’s came to assuming shit, but something about it all still makes his heart clench. Like he could be right, maybe. Maybe in some other universe.

 

 

The first time Connor kisses Freddie is under city lights at an empty intersection, a warm glow drowning them in something that feels unreal. An ocean of white and gold around them, lights that twinkle beneath the pins tacked sparsely along a dark black sky. 

The first time Connor kisses Freddie his heart is speeding and he reaches for the side of his arm as if he’ll feel a 31 beneath his fingertips, letting his hand stroke over his coat sleeve. 

His lips are buzzing, it’s all on impulse, and the first time Freddie kisses back all he can do is hold on and on and on. They’re hidden under the cloak of the night, but even then Connor can feel the lights illuminating the streets. Without a reminder of who they are, or why he shouldn’t do this, or the piece of his soulmate he’s carried for _months_. Instead he can let himself get lost in Freddie, Freddie, Freddie.

It’s after a game, when Connor had offered to take Freddie out and they’d walked because the breeze was warm and sweet, carrying the spring in its palms. And this.

Connor has to get up on the balls of his feet, clutching to Freddie for balance, and Freddie’s a sturdy weight. He’s supportive and so fucking _big_ , and fuck, Connor’s done. 

He pulls back, feeling dizzy, and almost convinces himself to keep from glancing up and down the road. Because the quiet parts of Toronto are still considered to be buzzing with life. And Connor’s played the game long enough to know never to let his guard down, even if Freddie alone could shoot down all his defences just like that.

“Connor,” Freddie says, because he still hasn’t called Connor _Brownie_ without laughing about it, as scarce as his smiles are. “I—you—“

“I liked that,” Connor says, because Freddie’s hand is sitting on his waist. “I like _you_. A lot, Freddie.”

Freddie’s face is blank enough that he doesn’t look like he’s considering it until Connor tries to catalog his expression, eyes soft and dropped down to his lips. “Yeah,” Freddie says, his words soft. “Yeah, that—I think that works.” 

Connor lets himself get pulled into another kiss, and he can’t help but smile through it.

 

 

The rest of the season goes like this: the Leafs win, and they keep on winning. It’s new and refreshing, and it finally feels like the kids are making a difference. They make the playoffs and they’re set to play against Washington. 

Freddie gives Connor a warm smile before Game 1. They don’t win.

They’re knocked out shortly and Connor doesn’t care where Washington goes but he feels this vindictive pleasure when they fall in the second round. Always, always. 

The post season’s cut short, too short. Connor sends Freddie a lot of texts and gets just enough in return to feel better about it.

Hockey’s over until September, but Connor gets to spend his time with Freddie. They can stay up late nights and cuddle up without worrying about early morning practices or late night games.

They don’t get a cup, but Connor gets Freddie.

And it’s perfect.

 

 

Connor still has a soulmate. He still has words that flash on and off his wrist, it’s just a little hard to focus on it all when he’s got Freddie giving him his world. It’s even harder to decipher just what’s happening when he’s alone, tucked under his bedsheets with his phone’s flashlight shining on his wrist.

Broken thoughts. Just like every other time, out of context and sometimes incoherent. Too fast maybe, or a completely different language, or Connor will zone out trying to connect anything his soulmate thinks to _Freddie_.

Because he’ll shut his eyes and see it so clearly, having Freddie who he’s just about head over heels for as his soulmate, but it’s just be so right. Too right, like, a fairytale that’s got him reaching. The guy he’s been chasing for half the season ending up as his soulmate.

There’s that invisible pull he feels to be with Freddie, but that—it means nothing. 

 

 

“Do you have a soulmate?” Connor finds himself asking the next time he’s at Freddie’s place, back on his couch. His gaze lands on the hoodie sleeve pulled over Freddie’s wrist. “Wait, no, that’s dumb, uh—do you know who it is? Have you met them?” 

Freddie blinks at him and Connor thinks it’s subconscious, the way his fingers graze his wrist, like he can feel the thoughts that run across his skin. “Not yet, no,” he sucks in his bottom lip, tongue prodding at it in that way that drives Connor up the fucking wall. “I’m happy with what I have, you know?”

He can feel his face burn, especially with how Freddie reaches out to hold onto his hand. He uses his left hand, the one without a piece of his soulmate deliberately clinging to him. Connor tries not to think about it, even if, “But aren’t you curious?”

Freddie looks at him like he’s trying to scope out exactly what Connor’s thinking. “I mean, sometimes? It’s not that big of a deal, soulmates aren’t a necessity. They haven’t been since forever.” 

Connor squeezes his hand, feeling this relief well up in his chest. “Do you ever—have you read your wrist?” 

“Nothing ever makes sense,” Freddie tells him. “The writing’s always so messy, it’s just. I _can’t_.” 

Connor thinks about his wrist, the perfectly spaced letters all boxed down into tiny, tiny font. He didn’t know it could come in different forms, that Freddie’s been blessed with chicken scratch on his arm. 

A toppled over can of paint pops up in his head, and Connor can’t help but jump to it.

He tries to make it sound natural, like, “I can make out something at least. My soulmate apparently knocked over a can of paint while painting. How do you _manage_ that?” 

Freddie’s thumb strokes over the skin on the back of Connor’s hand, soft and gentle. It’s barely there, a touch he can really only feel if he’s looking for it, and he is. “It’s really not that hard,” he protests. “Like, knocking over the can? With your foot?”

Connor raises his eyebrows. “Speaking from personal experience, yeah?” 

The tips of Freddie’s ears are tinged red, but he doesn’t deny it, huffing out a breath of laughter. Connor fucking loves that laugh, thinks he could listen to it forever. “It happens. My soulmate is _really_ into hockey. And, like, thirsty. Consistently.” 

“Hey,” Connor protests. “Being thirsty is what got us where we are now, if I wasn’t completely gone for you where do you think we’d be?” 

Freddie chuckles, and he squeezes Connor’s hand. It’s good. So, so good. “I just don’t know if forcing someone into a WAG lifestyle is, like, right? I’ve never really worried about soulmates, just went at my own pace. But, there’s all of this.” He gestures at the room pretty generously, and Connor thinks he means this league. Dealing with having to date someone who spends most of the season out of town.

God, he got so fucking lucky. 

And—

“What if you were matched up with another player?” Connor tries to gauge his reaction to that. It’s mainly just disbelief. The thought of it is just so _out here_. 

“What are the chances of that?” 

“Not many stats out there for soulmate hockey players,” Connor tells him. “But, then again, it’s not something you’d tell the media.”

“Yeah,” Freddie agrees. “They’re into hockey enough to be one. But.” He shrugs, and Connor gets it. It’s a little hard to take in.

“Mine spent a good bit of last summer hating Canada,” he says lightly, feeling a grin pull at his lips while he thinks back to it. “Maybe I got someone from the States.”

Freddie scoffs. “Pretty rough. Mine’s definitely Canadian, all I could see on Canada day was ‘wow, what a great fucking country’ or like, ‘fourth of July? You mean Canada day part two?’” He’s smiling now, and Connor squints a little.

“Mine speaks more than just English, so I wouldn’t even know for sure if they’re that patriotic,” he says slowly. The gears in his head are turning, this can’t be what he thinks. There’s no way. He’s just overthinking it. 

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, something from Europe?”

Freddie glances down at his wrist, his hand slipping back to his lap. “Oh. I—“ He cuts himself off, but everything he wants to say is implied in that. Freddie can speak more than just English, everyone knows it. 

Connor opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out. He’s not sure what’s _supposed_ to come out. Not when everything clicks so perfectly. Just like this. 

His mouth feels dry, the roof of it like sandpaper against his tongue, and— “Wait, hold on,” he blurts, and bunches his own sleeve up to his elbow. Freddie’s eyes go a little wider when Connor scans over the writing on his wrist, a panicked little _there’s no way_ followed up by _this can’t be possible_. 

“It’s possible,” Connor says. “It’s so fucking possible.” He can hear his heart thrumming in his ears and all he can register is the flicker of a smile on Freddie face before he tugs him in to kiss him. 

It’s soft and easy and _Freddie_. Connor has Freddie, in his arms and on his wrist, it’s always been Freddie. “It’s you,” he breathes out against his lips. “You—fuck. Freddie.”

Freddie laughs into his mouth, pulling back his sleeve and throwing his gaze down to his wrist. Connor tries to slow his train of thought, but he can see the things in his head bouncing on and off Freddie’s wrist and it’s just too much to handle. 

He’s still looking at his wrist, where Connor’s thought of _it’s real_ is fading, and Freddie looks so fucking worn out. Like, even after seeing it all happen, he can’t believe this is it. And part of Connor isn’t sure he’s ever going to get used to it, not when he’s got Freddie. 

“Shit,” Freddie huffs out and he’s smiling hard enough that Connor can feel his heart tremble, watching the way he scrubs a hand over his face. “Connor, you’re. This is it. This is _you_.” He’s talking about his wrist, but Connor isn’t watching it anymore, pulling Freddie in just to kiss him again. Like he can’t keep away.

“This whole fucking time,” Connor says, practically on top of him, and Freddie laughs.

“Better late than never.”

“Gotta make this one to remember, then,” Connor tells him, drawn right back into Freddie like a magnet. He doesn’t pull his sleeve down for the rest of the night, always touching his hand to the faded lettering, and. That’s everything.


End file.
